


bite down hard, bite down

by makapedia



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, angsty smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:46:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's so afraid of becoming her parents. She's a legacy, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bite down hard, bite down

She wants him so badly that it hurts.

In more than just the physical ache she feels deep in the pit of her belly. She wants him in her soul, wants to be able to hold his hand without worrying if she’s crossing a line or breaking rules. She wants the emotional intimacy that’ll come with him.

But she also wants sex. With her weapon. With  _Soul,_ because he sets her blood ablaze and makes her feel more things than anyone else ever has dared to. He inspires madness in her – madness in the form of passion and blinding lust, searing heat and the painful want to slide her hands down his back and put her mouth places good meisters don’t dream about.

She’s a _legacy,_ after all.

She’s a living, walking legacy of a _meister and weapon_  hookup. She’s the only thing left of the partnership – a girl with divorced parents, abandonment issues and a blazing attraction to her weapon, because apparently she’s all of her parents mistakes and wisdom rolled into one blonde haired time bomb.

Holding his hand shouldn’t leave her fingers burning and her mouth dry. Wishing him a good night shouldn’t leave her breathless. Watching other girls confess to him shouldn’t leave her with a withering sense of self and a fierce possessiveness that rivals his own.

Because she knows it’s not unrequited. She’s resonated with him for years, she lives with him, she fights with him – they’re weapon and meister, roommates, and they could probably be lovers if the situation was different. She knows what he feels and knows what he thinks about when it’s dark and he thinks she can’t hear the humming of his soul. She knows his gaze lingers too long, too, on long legs and the expanse of her stomach. She knows why he locks himself in the bathroom for too-long shower, knows why he shuffles off to bed early, before the movie has ended, and pushes her legs off of his lap.

He wants her, too. His eyes burn with unbridled need as she brushes his bangs from his eyes and lightly chastises him – he needs a haircut, his hair is a mess, and he nods even though they both know he’s not paying attention to a damn thing she’s saying.

He looks at her mouth, her bare shoulders, her neck and her throat. His jaw tightens and his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly.

It’s too hot in the bathroom. The condensation blurs the mirror in puffs and glazes her reflection with a frosty, murky film, but the shade of Soul’s burning stare is translucent. He  _wants._

She feels too naked in her cami and  _not naked enough,_  all at once, and it scares her. She wants too. Wants thing she can’t have, wants things that spell out the end of a partnership and an era and the dawn of following in her mama’s footsteps verbatim. Is it healthy to want to kiss him this badly? Is it right? 

She wonders how his skin would feel under her fingertips. She wonders how he would sound if she bit his neck, or his lip, or even the juncture of his throat. She wonders what he tastes like, wonders if his teeth are as sharp as they look and oh, what would it feel like to be bitten back? Would the backroom door hurt if he slammed her against it as he sunk into her? If she pushed him against it instead?

There’s probably even a condom or seven under the sink. Blair keeps the apartment stocked, just in case – just in case what, Maka doesn’t know, but she’s pretty sure she could put them to good use, judging by the way Soul licks his lips and looms over her like she’s a snack and he’s a hunter.

She hates the way the heat looms within her – terrible,  _traitorous_ heat, and a wave of warmth that blooms between her legs. She takes a step back because she needs to collect herself and remember why they’re better off as friends.

It could endanger their resonance. It’ll rewrite the laws of their partnership. He’s her best friend.

His eyes are molten red and she wants his mouth all over her. She repeats it in her head; resonance, partnership, best friend.

He steps closer and Soul has never looked more serious about anything. He’s not wearing a shirt, dressed for bed in nothing but a pair of low riding sweats that expose faint white hair trailing to places she’s had terribly glorious dreams of and hip bones that make her want to sin. Resonance, partnership, _he’s her best friend and everything to her._  He’s temptation and delirium, a whirlwind of heat and passion that she wants to sweep her away and make her forget who she is for a while.

Because standing there with him in their bathroom makes her not want to be Maka anymore. She wants to be anyone else – a nameless, faceless girl, perhaps, who’s blind to consequences and will let the boy she loves write poetry on her skin with his lips.

“Soul.”

He stops, lingers, stares. His eyes beg her, beckon her for permission, for release. He aches so badly that he hurts. It _hurts._

She hurts, too. “Soul, no.”

It’s like she can feel the misery in his bones, in his blood. His soul is a myriad of low notes, tinkling sadness and ache – regret, regret,  _regret_  – but he obeys. He steps back and slides his hands into his pockets. He watches her with the same focused concentration that he always has and she straightens herself, squares her shoulders and puts on her brave face.

She’s aroused, and so is he. He’s held a torch for her for years and it burns her to her very core. His loyalty thaws her to alarming levels.

It terrifies her to think about what will happen when the tension breaks. What will happen when their partnership breaks down? What will happen to their resonance if she surrenders herself to her lust?

He leaves the door open when he heads for bed. It’s just like him to leave her the option without actually making a decision himself.

* * *

The mattress dips beneath the weight of her knees. There’s a squeak (Soul’s mattress is so old) and then a sigh, the steady inhale and exhale of his breath, the hum of cars buzzing by because Soul’s left his window open.

His shoulders heave languidly with his breath and she burns, burns, burns. She had to know. Curiosity will kill her. She’s her father’s daughter and her mother’s daughter all at once, wired up to detonate and Soul’s the trigger. Her hand cups his shoulder and she shakes gently, watching the way his back moves and stretches as he groans. The depth of his voice reassures her that her idea is awful, destructive and tempting all at once.

“Hahhh, whah?” He breathes as he cranes a look over his shoulder. The way his hair hangs over his eyes reminds her of simpler times, of fourteen year old Soul and his too-big headband, but the scruff along his jaw and the length of his torso tells her that things have changed. “ _Maka?_ ”

Her fingers clench around the curve of his shoulder. His skin’s warm and rousing beneath her palm, and his brows furrow as she worries her lip and searches for the right words to say.

He stares at her mouth again as she murmurs, “I want a kiss,” and she hates herself for being so wet. She wants so much more than a kiss. She wants his heated skin and the feel of his scar against her chest. She wants his smell to soak into her bones and mark her, taint her. She wants him to have his wicked way with her and to ask and take what he wants for once.

She moves her other hand and places it closer his back. One of the straps of her nightgown slips down her shoulder and his eyes follow the motion, captivated, and she muffles a moan with the sound of his name.

Soul pulls himself up and stares at her with sleepy eyes. He focuses on her, inquiring, as if she hasn’t already voiced her consent, and she knows it’s because he’s just as worried about this as she is. It will change things. There will be no going back. The question buzzes between them –  _are you sure you want this, is this okay?_ – and she gulps.

It’s never been a question of what she wanted. It’s if it’s right, if it’ll dissolve all of their hard work and companionship. Is it worth it for carnal pleasure, for release? To feel Soul bury himself between her hips and watch him lose himself to his desires, to their mutual desires?

She closes her eyes, parts her lips and trembles when his mouth finds hers.

Chapped lips move and slant against hers. Her heart beats so loudly that it almost deafens her as he moves against her, slides his arms around her waist and crushes to him and finally, finally, it’s like everything is right and wrong all at once and it’s glorious. He tastes like what she thinks sin might taste like – cinnamon toothpaste and an overwhelmingly nameless wet heat? – and it’s both weird and wonderful.

“Maka,” he murmurs, his voice that of a man deprived. “ _Maka_.”

Want has evolved into need, and if he doesn’t finish what they’ve started she thinks she might die. “Just do it,” she whimpers, and she feels him groan against her lips. “Please.”

He kisses her again, again, again, before he introduces her to the delight that is his tongue and the way it caresses and moves against hers. Kissing becomes messy, lips are bitten and tugged and everything is wet and hot. She breaks away from him long enough to let him pull her thin nightgown over her head before she glues herself back to him, not ready to give this up just quite yet.

Skin to skin with him is heaven and hell. It feels so right, more right than anything ever has, and it scares her – but not enough to drive her away, not enough to make her loosen her grip in his hair or remove her mouth from his jaw, because she’s waited and neglected her sex drive so thoroughly that it screams at her to do something, anything, just _touch_ him.

His hands grasp at her bare back. He grabs, tugs, strokes, and she plops against his pillows with a quiet whuff, breathing heavy and need desperate.

She wears nothing but a pair of simple white panties with a little pink bow adorning the center. It catches Soul’s eye and he bites his lip, clearly battling with the urge to either cry or tear them down her legs and acquaint himself with the most intimate part of her.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he curses softly. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

She shuffles and presses her thighs together. Soul trails a glance up her and she blushes vibrantly, fully, the heat trailing down past her neck and overtop the swell of her breasts. Her weapon Soul, the one from boyhood, teased her for her breasts and her skinny hips but her  _partner_ Soul, the one  _right fucking now_ , grazes the underside of her breast with such gingerness that she wonders when things changed. There’s no trace of the boy she shook hands with in the way he looks at her – scalding, wanting, needing, like she’s everything and he’s thankful that she exists on the same plain of existence that he does.

His palm smothers the slight raise of her flesh and he murmurs in wonderment. Tiny things, fragments of thoughts and sentences like soft, warm, perfect, does this feel okay? and she’s not capable of anything besides his name and pleasepleaseplease before her brain catches up with the heat coiling low in her belly.

She grazes her hands down and grabs his hips, tugs, and he hisses as she grinds herself against him manually. He’s hard, and it fascinates her just as much as it arouses her. He pauses, hand on her breast as he lets her guide the push and pull of his hips, a gradual rhythm that he bucks along with.

“Guuh, would you–?” He leans over and brushes his mouth against her throat. She’s enthralled and gasps. “Lemme do this right, Maka.”

“I want you  _inside_ ,” she pants, because it’s true and she’s afraid she’ll never feel it. How long has she wanted him? Longer than she can remember, that much is for sure.

He jerks against her and muffles a groan into her neck. She repeats her request, even tacks on a  _please, Soul, for me?_  at the end and he buries his mouth against her skin and grouses. His thumb brushes her nipple tenderly and fire ignites in her veins. She slides her hand down his sweats and grips him for the first time.

Soul groans low and she knows she’s fulfilled about a year’s worth of wet dreams in a single moment. She feels his brows raise against her shoulder as he drops his head against her, licks slow circles and hearts over her collarbone as she works him slowly, rubbing gently and languidly. His hips give and he rocks against her, moans and grunts and sinks his teeth lightly into her skin.

“Don’t, uh.”

“ _Soul._ ”

“Fuck, don’t,” he wheezes. Her thumb brushes right under his tip and even in the dark, she can see the way the slim muscles in his stomach spasm. “I gotta,” he licks his lips, kisses her skin, catches his breath. “… Gotta do you first. You gotta come before I, uh – fuck, wanna touch you, Maka. So bad.”

“You  _are_ touching me,” she whispers. She’s in a dream, or maybe a nightmare, and she doesn’t want to wake up. She wants to drown in dreamland and sink to the ocean’s floor.

“No. More like…” He traces a path from her chest to her naval, then to her panties.

She stops breathing. His fingers graze and rub slow, steady tempo against her lower belly. She summons enough sense to dip her fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and she tugs, and he gets the idea – he shuffles out of his pants quickly and his dick springs to life, so vehemently erect and eager that if she wasn’t so aroused she might laugh. But then he’s sliding her undergarment down her legs gently and dropping them off the bed and laughter becomes a distant thought.

His fingers are long. She’s stared at them so often that she’s sure she’s memorized the shape, each knuckle and nail, and when he’s finally stroked along her damp heat enough to sink a finger in she’s sure that’s everything has changed.

She shudders, lifts her hips and sobs his name. Delirium isn’t the half of it.

He kisses her as he pumps a finger inside her, steady and meticulous. Her hands tug his hair and grasp his shoulders. She needs something, anything to hold her down, because she’ll float away and all of this will be gone tomorrow when she wakes up in his bed with no clothes and a head full of regrets and why, why, why.

He tells her he loves her when he tentatively sinks another digit into her heat. Oh, he loves her  _so damn much,_  he’s loved her for so long, how can this be wrong, Maka?

And she feels it. She feels the beckon of his soul, the push and the pull of his rhythm. She knows he loves her more than anything else and she returns the sentiment. She loves him and his unshaven face, loves him and the way he plays the piano and brushes her hair and bleeds for her. She loves him for who he is and he loves her for her, pure soul and blood stained pigtails.

It scares her how much she needs him. It scares her how much she’ll lose when everything goes to hell, but it feels so good. It feels like eternity has finally come around and maybe she’s on her way to being whole, like their partnership thus far has been a trial run, training for this one moment of catalytic oblivion.

The coil is too much, as is the palm that rubs and kneads against her clit carefully, and she comes against his hand, thighs twitching and eyelashes fluttering. He kisses her face and steadies her hips with a free hand.

His eyes are dark as he gazes over her. She breathes his name and reaches for him, and he climbs his way over her and grazes his lips over her forehead, against sweat-stained bangs and flustered skin.

“Be right back,” he promises.

He crawls off of the bed and she’s flushed with a shivering loneliness that freezes her. She gasps sharply and grasps for him in the dark. She’s not ready to face her doom yet. She’s not ready to walk the death march and say goodbye to him, not yet.

There’s the sound of a wrapper being torn and he hisses lowly. Her face burns.

“Soul,” she says pleadingly. There are no words to describe how she feels about him.  _Thankful_ isn’t enough. “Please–”

“Here,” he lingers, climbs over her and presses his mouth to hers. “Right here,” he assures, and his nose brushes against hers in such an endearingly awkward way that she feels like crying.

It doesn’t hurt like she’s heard it does. She supposes she can thank Soul for that. She’s still so wet and so bothered that it’s nothing like her romance novels have described – there’s absolutely no blood and just a mild discomfort because it’s different and it’s weird, being filled by something so warm, flesh and human and _Soul._

_Resonance, partnership, best friend._

She feels whole and full, like maybe she’s been missing out on this her whole life, because Soul is nothing but heated breath and frozen hips as he twitches and struggles to remain still for her. He’s afraid of hurting her in the same way she’s afraid of letting herself feel this and it’s haunting. She feels raw and vulnerable, even though she trusts him; it’s soul searching and she digs her nails into his back.

“Good,” she vows. “Go. Soul.”

The first budge of his hips is tentative, like maybe he’s still afraid she’s unsure if she’s making a mistake. The next is slow but steady, passionate. When she moans lowly and raises her hips to meet his, he finds his groove.

She thinks putting their partnership on the line is worth seeing him like this, so emotional and expressive. His jaw is lax and he moans easily, clumsily, as his hips pump and he thrusts into her. He’s unbridled passion and love with every motion. He’s moaning her name as he slides a hand down to where they meet to rub her delicate bundle of nerves, panting softly, because of course Soul is a meticulous lover. Of course.

It’s so good.  _Deliriously_ good, and mind melting, and she arches against his bed, _begs_  for him to make her feel and he delivers. It’s all or nothing, it has to be, and Soul holds out for as long as he can, until his thrusts are uneven in time and frequency and she feels him jerk inside her.

It’s his voice, rough with sex and exhaustion, that encourages her to come, too, that allows her to fall over the edge. He kisses her again, again, again, and slides off to bury himself against his mattress, sticky with sweat and the syrupy texture of her name on his lips.

He slides out of bed to toss the condom and her head is empty – no buzz, no hum of his arousal or need. She tries not to let him see her cry. The tears are hot and feel therapeutic, even though her eyelids are heavy and her limbs are limp with satisfaction.

He hears her and holds her until she falls asleep against his damp pillow and his skin, kissing her forehead and promising that he’s not going anywhere.

* * *

“Easy,” he mumbles as he links his fingers with hers. “We’ve done this a thousand times. Nothing’s changed. It’s easy.”

He’s wrong. Everything’s changed. She’s Maka Albarn, emphasis on the _Albarn,_ and she’s about to be short one weapon partner. Goodbye Last Death Scythe, hello fate.

He squeezes her hand, raises it to his mouth and kisses her knuckles. She thinks of his hands and where they’d been only a night prior and she can’t stifle the heat that burns through her. He smiles lazily, a half smile that’s always thrilled her, and transforms.

Her immediate reaction is horror. His handle is warmer than she’s used to. It’s not hot, per say, but it’s warm – and rapidly heating, the harder she thinks about it and the more she focuses on the wrongness that is Soul in her hands. It’s revolting – he’s her scythe, her  _death scythe_ , and has she fallen from grace because she gave in to temptation?

(Temptation that was emotional, binding sex that left her feeling desperate for him and the swell of his soul – a religious experience that’s probably severed the delicate emotional balance that is their resonance rate)

Her hands tremble and she closes her eyes. She sees him hovering over her, panting. She sees him squinting at her through rays of too-bright sun. She sees him bleeding on the church floor in Italy, staining Professor Stein’s labcoat and dying.

It’s hot. It burns. It hurts.

“Maka,” he warns abruptly. “Stop thinking about it so hard!”

But it’s impossible not to think about it. How is anyone not supposed to grow attached to their partner? How is she not supposed to feel like this for Soul after living with him? After fighting for her life with him? After holding his wound together and crying on him and watching him open up emotionally? They’re trained to get along and conditioned to work together, to work as a single, highly functioning unit of soul reaping and death – but he’s also her most trusted companion, her best friend, she loves him, and  _how could this happen?_ How could it not?

She thinks of her parents. She thinks of her mama, heart broken and storming out the door. She thinks of her papa, drinking and linking an arm around a woman, any woman, anyone but her mother.

“I  _can’t,_ ” she hisses. Her fingers tremble and his handle is so warm. It scares her with how wrong it is. Holding Soul should never hurt. Soul never hurts her, never willingly, never on purpose.

“We’re fine,” he promises. “ _We’re fine._ I’m not going anywhere. I’m not your dad.”

She breathes in, out, rinse and repeat. “Promise?”

“Yeah. And  _you’re_ not your mom. You’re Maka.”

She feels his wavelength, poignant and rough but still so sure, steady and there. It’s a breath of fresh air and she latches herself onto it greedily. She lets it coil around hers and trembles a little at the instantaneous satisfaction – there he is, finally, and everything meshes together.

It’s a lot like feeling whole again, just without the awkward slickness of a condom and the burning heat that tore through her. There’s a lot less of Soul panting in her ear and a lot more of tinkling notes in her head, little songs and melodies that come with letting Soul in so deep. Their resonance is impressive, it has been for a while, and relief strums through her.

She cries again when holding him no longer hurts and Witch Hunter is as easy as 1, 2, 3, and putting one foot in front of the other. She laughs bashfully when he transforms, lightly knocks his knuckles against her forehead and tells her to tone it down about three notches. She smiles when he kisses her, right on the lips and hands cupping her jaw. It’s raw and real and right, and she murmurs that she’d like to try last night again.

“Without the waterworks?” He asks hopefully.

She tugs his hand in hers. She thinks she’d like to practice a bit more and get used to being allowed to flirt with their sexual tension and seeing it through, too.

 His grin has her halfway there.

“Yeah,” she smiles. “Without the waterworks.”


End file.
